17. Loyal Second
“There is a new song sung in the taverns of Timilir, The Bear of Vendrick. By my own understanding, it is a thinly veiled effort at insulting a once-loved hero who eloped with the daughter of Jarl Alfgeir. The latest rumours say that this hairy beast has fled to Southwestern Tymir.
I wonder if I should sing the song to Grettir.”
Grettir sat opposite the Salt Sage in Gudmund’s Hall. They were the only two men dining on the benches and Grettir wasn’t actually eating. Even so, this was the most men that had dined there in the past month.
Grettir had been told to watch over the Salt Sage, but he thought the man seemed harmless and unremarkable, save for that he wrapped his face in rags, which was an odd sort of way to hide the true intentions that showed on a person’s face.
The Salt Sage had made a slow effort of eating oats, but he now looked up from his bowl. “How did you lose your arm?”
Grettir’s laugh was rough like his voice. “Fond of simple questions?”
“I meant no offence,” said the Sage, scraping up the remnants of his meal.
“None caused.” Grettir glanced at the black sleeve sagging from his right shoulder. “Goblins are always soiling their spears, and one gave me a small cut. It had happened before so I paid it less mind than I should have. It started to turn bad, and I tried to burn it out… which didn’t make things much better.”
The Salt Sage nodded.
“So I had to go to the Ritual House. I was carried there,” he amended. “And then the Godi hacked off my arm. He told me that I was lucky to be alive, given all of the blood I’d lost.” He laughed a disappointed laugh. “I punched him in the throat for that. I shouldn’t have, mind, but I wasn’t much in a good mood.”
“Understandable,” the Sage replied. “But you still lead Horvorr’s Guard.”
“Do I?” Grettir sighed, and rubbed at his bearded chin. “Hard for me tell these days. They’re getting restless.”
“Rebellious?”
“Aye,” he admitted. “They weren’t paid for the season past.”
“Because they failed to protect the sons of Gudmund?”
Grettir studied the visitor for a long while before giving answer. “I wouldn’t say that to folk round here. Gudmund least of all. He’ll agree with you readily enough but he’s not a man that should be reminded of his losses. All the worse if those words come from a stranger claiming to be sent by a god that did him no favours.”
The Salt Sage met the sentiment with silence. He pushed away his empty bowl. “Why does Gudmund think that he deserve favours from the gods?”
“I’m not laying blame.” Grettir upturned his weathered palm. “Only warning you that he’s took grievance against the gods before you ever came to Horvorr. And if you misspeak then it might well cost you your life.” His eyes narrowed. “Whatever protection you’ve been afforded elsewhere, you won’t have it here. I won’t go as far as saying this place lacks faith, but you might have noticed we’ve no shrines to any god but Muradoon the Spirit Talker.”
“My thanks for your warning, Grettir.” The Salt Sage dipped his head before rising. “I’m now ready to see Gudmund.”
Grettir stepped up from the bench. “I’ll lead you to him.”
The robed man and the one-armed man walked away from the feasting tables. They fell in step at the imposing chair, and strode through the curtains of the left corridor. “If you don’t mind me asking,” Grettir said. “What does a Sage of Tomlok actually do?”
“Do?” the Sage asked. “I suppose most are sent to the Driftwood Grotto, where they drink sea salt until they’re half mad and are happy enough to be left alone scrawling out prophecies in the darkness. Fingernails against stone.”
“Oh.” Grettir nodded as if that were usual enough. “But you’re different?”
“Yes.” The Salt Sage studied furs on the floor. “I’m long past half mad.”
Grettir chuckled. He paused outside the counsel room. “Wait here until I call you in,” he instructed before ducking through the purple curtain that marked the door.
Eight black-and-silver banners covered the walls within, which made the counsel room appear ever-ready for darkness.
Chief Gudmund sat waiting on the high-backed chair of an octagonal table. The eight seats were each dark and varnished, worked with gold symbols that depicted stars, scrolls and runes. Broknar the Elder’s full likeness had been carved, light against dark, into the tabletop. The god of wisdom wore a conical helm, wild hair tangling down, reaching to meet a twisted beard. Sunken eyes, owly brows atop them, peered down towards the great and endless scroll that unfurled into his lap.
Gudmund scrutinised the carved scroll as well, reading the false language scrawled. He hadn’t bother to comb and his unruly red hair stood apart from his formal black clothing. He managed a tired smile for his oldest friend. “Grettir.”
Grettir wore all black as well, so both men appeared suited to the room. “Gudmund.”
“You might as well bring him in.”
Grettir took the seat at his Chief’s right, where the carved scroll gave appearance of spilling over the edge. “Sage!”
The Salt Sage swept through the curtains. “Chief Gudmund.” He bowed in greeting. “I thank you for the audience granted.”
“Forced or taken might be closer to the mark,” Gudmund replied. “I’d thought it some trick of the night when I saw you last. Why have you covered your face?”
“When I was a young boy, I told a man that his wife would leave him, and he did not take well to the news,” the Sage said without hesitation. “I was in a forge at the time, and the furnace was near to hand. His wife did leave him in the end. When she could not reconcile her husband with the man who had so burnt my face.”
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Gudmund sniffed. “I’m half tempted to make you show me your burns. But the sooner you begin the sooner you finish. So go ahead.”
“If you’re sure?” the Sage asked.
“I am.” Gudmund waved his hand towards the chair opposite. “Sit.”
The Salt Sage dipped his head, and pulled out the high-backed chair. He sat with two banners behind him and it looked as though the silver-woven wolves were poised to strike. “I have come here on the bidding of the Elder Sages.” He spread his gloved palms across the black table. “Those of the Driftwood Grotto.”
Gudmund waved him on.
“Southwestern Tymir has long been troubled by Goblins, has it not?” the Sage continued. “Ever since Jarl Harrod broke their main strength in the Midderlands.”
Grettir nodded. “Aye.”
“He did,” Gudmund said. “And then he drove them south and into our mountains for us to deal with.”
“Which you have, honourably,” the Sage said. “Yet the last attack cost you greatly.”
Gudmund stilled him with a raised hand. “I’ll tell you now that I’ve no patience for you, Sage. So don’t speak of cost when you know nothing of what I’ve paid. Don’t speak of a battle that you didn’t attend. If you’re here to warn me, to bring a message, then go ahead. But don’t be clever with your words.”
The Salt Sage straightened. “If we cannot speak of battles we did not attend then I suppose the both of us must remain silent.”
Gudmund met those words with a cruel grin. “Unless you’ve come all this way to die, I’d flee this room before you’re running on bloody stumps.”
“Strike me and the gods will curse you.”
Gudmund started to laugh, then slammed the table instead. “I am already cursed!”
“Gudmund,” Grettir entreated. “This man has a come a long way. Is there any real harm in hearing him out?”
“Why don’t we ask that of the man that burned your face, Sage?” Gudmund growled. “He was married before he met you, was he not? And after? No doubt reviled for his violence and then forced into a life of isolation. No child for him. No woman for him. No respect. No happiness.”
The Salt Sage’s chuckle held malice. “So you would not hear me out for fear that my humble words will poison your fate?”
“My fate can be no more poisoned.”
“Then where is the risk?” the Sage brightly asked.
“Speak, then!” Gudmund demanded. “Deliver your cruel prophecies!”
“The Snake Basin Path was but the first strike in a wider war,” the robed man explained. “Those whom you defeated, whom you stole these lands from, have returned. The hundreds slain number as nothing to the thousands that remain. Your region is overrun. You are surrounded.” The Salt Sage took a deep breath. “Your sons died for nothing, Gudmund. They died because you refused your duty. And if you do so again—”
Gudmund lifted the table, flipping it up and into the air. The Sage’s seat collapsed with a crunch while the rest were scattered in all directions.
The Salt Sage was already standing with his back to a black banner. He reached for his sword but Gudmund’s own blade pressed against his throat.
The Chief of Horvorr hauled the robed man from his feet. “You—”
“—answered a question that you asked! Do you think it does you good to act so rabid, Gudmund? You may have lost your faith, but the people of Horvorr have not. You spill my blood in your house, under sight of the gods, and you will be cursed. Your sons, and all of your line, no longer welcome with Brikorhaan.”
Gudmund met the words with a smirk. “I should kill you now and be done with this.”
“If your grief is so deep,” the Sage spoke coldly, “perhaps you ought to kill yourself.”
“Gudmund!” Grettir roared, his axe drawn and glinting in the dim light. “You need to let him go.”
“You’d end my life to protect this stranger?” Gudmund asked in disbelief.
“Not for him. I would end your waking life to safeguard the one that comes after.”
Gudmund nearly cried as he laughed. “And what if nothing comes after, old friend?” he demanded. “What then? What will I have waited so long for?”
“That wait will be even harder with the lingering smell of a corpse,” Grettir argued. “And he’s not wrong. We’ll all suffer if you take his life.”
Gudmund scowled at the hapless man in his lifeless robe. He kept hold as he lowered him to the floor. “Leave my town tonight or I will come and kill you. I don’t care about the gods. But he’s not wrong when he says you’ll make an awful sort of smell.”
He shoved the robed man towards the purple curtain.
“Thank you.” The Salt Sage bowed, backing towards the door. “But I won’t be leaving this town. At least not until I’m good and ready.”
Gudmund chuckled, but he trembled with hate. “Then you will die as the sun rises.”
“If only that were true,” he replied wistfully. “Nevertheless—”
“Sage.” Grettir pushed the robed man towards the curtain. “Time to leave.”
“Time to leave,” Gudmund agreed.
“But—”
Grettir shoved him into the corridor. He urged the robed man forward, arm around shoulder. “Have you got a death wish, Sage?”
The Salt Sage sighed. “My apologies. I’m often rankled when men threaten to kill me for no reason.”
“No reason?” Grettir asked. “I wanted to kill you myself.” He shook his head in frustration, and ushered the robed man into the main hall.
“Did you?” The Salt Sage stopped at the foot of the ornate chair. “I was simply delivering my message.”
“Aye,” Grettir muttered. “Delivered like the stab of a dagger. You’re a cruel man, Sage, and you’ve no place here.”
“Nor will you, or anyone else, when the goblins arrive in their thousands.”
Grettir offered no answer to that. His hirsute visage was troubled.
“How much coin has Gudmund given to the Ritual House?” the Sage then asked.
“Is that business of yours, or even mine?” Grettir scowled. “It’s time for you to leave.”
“The Godi of Muradoon… Lovrin, yes?”
Grettir belatedly nodded. “He lives at the Ritual House.”
“He has given Gudmund some tincture to help him sleep?”
“What of it?”
“Baneful to the mind,” the Sage answered. “He means to soften Gudmund, and profit from his grief. Only he has the measures wrong, which makes it closer to poison.”
Grettir leaned close to meet his eyes. “And why are you telling me this?”
“Because when a man refuses to help himself, it is up to those that care about him to help in his stead,” the Sage explained. “Accompany me to the Ritual House, Grettir. And I will prove to you that Lovrin is poisoning Gudmund. And—when I do—I would like you to delay, or cancel, the Autumn Trip.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because you will know that I am an honest and perceptive man. You will know that you can trust my warnings. Whether delivered as knives or as flowers.”
Grettir eventually led him toward the ornate doors. “I don’t like you, Sage.”
“That’s fine,” he replied. “I was never asking for that. Not from you. Nor anyone.”